Death is an affair of honor here, a demure seaport death, kith of lasting blessed lightfrom the Socorro's cloister and the minutial ash of braziersand fine sweet birthday milk and deep dynasties of yards. They go well with you old sweetness old rigor.

Your brow is the valorous porticoand a tree's blind generosity and birds discussing, all unknowing, deathand ruffles, enthusing breasts, of drums in the military plots; your shoulder, the tacit conventicles of the Northand the wall of Rosas's executioners.

Feeding on dissolution with marble suffragethe unrepresentable dead dehumanized in your darkness since Maria de los Dolores Maciel, daughter of Uruguaysown here for heaven slept, so little, in your open country.

I would pause a moment,your pious commentary of frilly flowersyellow soil under the acacias, commemorative flowers hoisted in your cryptssleepy and graceful stays for what reason joined to the terrible relics of those we love?

Problem posed and answer: Flowers always watch the dead, because we know uncomprehendingly that their sleepy and graceful existenceis the best to go with them without offense of living, without being more alive than they.